After days of endlessly shifting stuff, it was an anticlimactic shock to find the room cleaned out. "We can actually see the floor in here," Machiavelli observed, turning in a slow circle.

"We're not going to get rid of the futon, are we?" Billy asked, siting on said piece of furniture.

"Do you really want to keep it?" The Italian observed the lumpy, fold out couch critically. Admittedly, it wasn't as ugly as some of the other things they'd moved out of the room, either to be put in storage or to be thrown out, and Machiavelli supposed that he should be glad this was the item Billy'd formed an attachment too, but he couldn't image what use they would have for this throwback to the seventies. Billy nodded vigorously. "Well, I suppose it would be good for if we ever have guests over that we don't particularly like."

"I'll have you know this futon is not totally uncomfortable," Billy shot back, beaming up at him. He patted the spot next to him and Machiavelli lowered himself into the seat. The Kid threw an arm around Machiavelli's shoulders. "Did you know that Abraham Lincoln once lay on this very mattress?"

Machiavelli scoffed. "He did not."

"No, he didn't," Billy admitted. "But I did! For an entire month week back in 1968. I lost a bet with Black Hawk, but he gave me a choice- I could sleep on this or I could swim in the Potomac. Given the level of pollution that was rampant at the time, I felt very lucky to be lying on this mattress every night."

"But this isn't going to be my bed, is it?" Niccolo pressed.

"No, I'm going to order you a mattress," Billy assured him.

"And I don't have to keep her on the wall, do I?" Machiavelli asked, pointing to the poster of Uschi Obermeier. "It's not that her nudity offends me, it's just that her nipples seem to follow me wherever I am in the room and it throws me off." He looked at the poster again. "Her hairstyle does offend me though."

Billy laughed. "You don't have to keep Uschi if you don't want to. Even though you will be taking down something that's been on that wall for over forty years…" He paused for dramatic effect, but Machiavelli didn't let him have his moment, so he continued. "We should probably paint the walls in this room, brighten it up a little."

"The wall color is surprisingly not completely awful," Machiavelli commented thoughtfully.

"Not completely awful, I guess I'll take that as a compliment," Billy mumbled. He rested his head on the Italian's shoulder.

"That wasn't a personal attack," Machiavelli hastened to explain. "It's just that I figured since you painted this in the seventies, the walls would be orange or something horrible like that."

"Well, now that you speak of it, Black Hawk did want to paint the walls in here turquoise, but no, I haven't painted this room since the fifties. I stayed here briefly in the seventies, hence Uschi," he gestured to her, "but by then this room had become a storage room. It was a bedroom at one point, though."

"Whose bedroom?"

Billy squinted towards the ceiling. "Oh, what was her name? Betty Dymek and her little boy Donald. She was a waitress in a nightclub Billie sang in back in the 1940s, a long time ago, called Emerson's Bar and Gril. She came into the club one night with her face all black and blue."

"What had happened to her?"

Billy took off his left shoe and felt around inside it. "Her husband was beating her," he said abruptly. "Billie wanted to help, but she didn't want to get killed herself at the time either. Men have always made her nervous. Anyway, I suggested Betty come stay at my place."

"So she did?"

The Kid nodded. He dropped his shoe back onto the ground and reached into his front pocket. "Got a few pictures I found in my nightstand upstairs. Meant to show them to you. Here they are the first day they came here." He handed the photo to Machiavelli who held it carefully by its edges.

Niccolo examined the photo. Betty was a young black woman, very young in fact. She was kneeling, one arm protectively around a little boy in overalls. The Italian immortal winced. Even with the black and white photography, he could make out the discoloration on her face, the unnatural swelling. Neither of them were smiling.

"Looks bad, doesn't she?" Billy asked and he glanced up. The Kid had been watching his reaction. "Don't worry. This is the picture of her the day she left." He handed him another picture.

"That's much better," Machiavelli said, smiling. Lady Day was in this picture, her fingers loosely intertwined with Betty's. The two women were laughing about something; Machiavelli wondered what exactly had sparked their amusement.

The Kid took the picture back. He looked at it too. "I think they were in love," he said. "When Billie got her immortality, she came to me. I hadn't told her I was immortal, but she knew. After that, she asked me to put away these pictures. So I did."

"That's sad."

"It is," Billy agreed. He got to his feet. "I wish things had turned out better." He got to his feet, brushing off his back. "But it was nice while she was living here. I loved her little boy."

Machiavelli smiled up at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Billy gushed. "He was so cute." The outlaw slipped on his shoes again. "Want to go pick out paint now?"

"I suppose we should."

And that was how they found themselves at the local paint store, looking at swatches of paint. Machiavelli spent far more time here, considering his options, than he had at the cabin when they painted the guest house. He supposed that this meant he'd matured since their past painting experience and he felt a little bit better, having sometimes found it disconcerting to not really feel like himself.

"So what colors would you like your walls?"

Machiavelli examined the color choices before him. He felt a little overwhelmed by the hundreds of options and gravitated towards the more mute colors. "How about this one?" he said at last, plucking a light, warm brown off the display. It was called Truffle.

"It's very classy," Billy approved. He ended up picking up several cans of a warm cream color too, for the trim. Machiavelli let the outlaw lead the way once more, knowing that Billy'd be able to know what they needed and didn't need. He followed him down several aisles, helping to carry tarps and brushes when their car became full.

On their way home, they made two stops. The first was to a mattress store, where Billy insisted on the Italian trying out each bed, even a California King size bed that they were obviously not going to get; it wouldn't have even fit in the room. In the end, Machiavelli found a bed that was of the right firmness for him. He felt a little uncomfortable lying down in the store, with other people milling around, especially after Billy flopped down beside him.

"They said they won't be able to ship it until sometime next week," Billy told him as they walked out. Good, Machiavelli thought. He nodded instead.

After the mattress store, they stopped at the grocery store next door to pick up a bottle of wine and a frozen pizza. "This is going to be one classy meal," Machiavelli quipped.

"We're going to have fun," Billy said determinately.

~MB~

"See, I told you this futon would grow on you." They were lying in the middle of the room, tarps all around them on the floor and a sheet covering Billy's beloved futon.

"William, I think the paint fumes are starting to get to me."

"They must be. You called me William again," the Kid scoffed. He flipped onto his stomach and fumbled for his glass of wine. Taking a sip from said glass proved to be inexplicably challenging as Billy grappled with gravity and a slight buzz. "Could be the wine too, though. Good thing we taped everything off before we started drinking."

"That was a good plan," Machiavelli said. He giggled a little. Next to him, Billy laughed too. "Why are we laughing again?"

Billy was suddenly serious. "I don't know. Mac, this room reminds me of coffee. Do you think this is a sign from God?"

Machiavelli rolled off the cushion and crawled to his feet. "We've either got to stop drinking or get into a better ventilated room." He hiccupped. "Probably both."

"Help me up," Billy begged, holding out his arms. After a lot of tugging and groaning on both of their parts, the American immortal was standing once more. "Didn't I tell you we were going to have fun?" he slurred as they went up a flight to crash in their functional bedroom.

"You did," Machiavelli agreed tiredly. He stripped off the t-shirt Billy'd lent him and tossed it in the basket.

"And didn't you have fun?" Billy asked, leaning over to pull off a sock and flopping on his side. He looked over at the Italian. "Mac, you're getting a bit of a happy trail," he pointed out, raising a hand to touch the other immortal.

"I am not," Niccolo denied. He tangled his fingers with Billy's, gently moving his hand away again.

"Sorry," Billy slurred. "I had too much wine."

"Yeah, I thought you didn't drink," Machiavelli said, sitting beside him at the end of the bed after straightening him up again.

"I drink very little, which is why I have no tolerance for it and do silly things when I get drunk. And then I get very, very, very tired…" The Kid put his head down on Machiavelli's shoulder, nuzzling it slightly. He wrapped his arms around Machiavelli's waist, dropping his hands in the Italian's lap. "I love you."

"Well, nobody can say you're not an affectionate drunk," Machiavelli said, wrapping his arm around the other man's waist and pulling him to his feet. "I guess I'll put you to bed."

"That's good. That's great, Mac." Billy blinked a lot and tried to look serious. It lasted about two seconds and then he got the goofiest grin on his face. "Mac, am I wearing my pajamas?"

"Billy, you're wearing all of your day clothes except for that one sock you pulled off."

"Oh, so I am," Billy observed, looking down. "I'm going to take off that other sock."

Machiavelli grabbed him as he suddenly lurched downward. "William, don't you dare." He fumbled with Billy's jean zipper- feels really strange to undress another man- pulled his pants down and then pushed the Kid down on the bed. "I'll take care of it."

"Don't bother with pajamas, I feel really hot," Billy commanded, trying to pull his t-shirt off over his arm instead of his head. Machiavelli let him flail for a solid half minute, more interested by the bulge made in Billy's briefs than the hot mess going on above. How drunk am I? He wondered. Realizing the American was beginning to panic a little, he snapped out of his trance and yanked the shirt unceremoniously off of Billy. "Thank you, Mac," Billy wheezed, looking up at the Italian.

"Don't mention it. Ever again," Machiavelli told him. He realized he was leaning over the American immortal and backed up. "I had fun today. You're still keeping that promise you made to me."

"You asked me to teach you how to have fun," Billy said, scooting over and tucking one leg under the blankets. "You never told me to stop." Machiavelli nodded tiredly. He continued to change into his nightclothes, finally climbing beside the other immortal. He wondered how many more nights he would have, to sleep beside the American immortal without raising suspicion. The Kid broke into his stream of thought. "Mac?"

"Yes, Billy?"

"I get the feeling you're more dominant than I thought, sexually," Billy babbled. The Italian immortal had been burrowing deeper under the covers; now, he sat up to look at the other immortal. Billy noticed nothing. "Good night, Mac. Let's hope we don't have a massive hangover tomorrow." He clicked out the light.

"Good night, Billy."